


The File

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coulson always needs to know, Coulson beating himself up, Coulson being a bit clueless, Coulson realizing he's in love with DAisy, Daisy loves Coulson, Daisy the Compassionate, F/M, Hydra (Marvel), I love Phil Coulson Sad Baby Deer, More angst, Not Rosalind Price friendly, Panic Attacks, Phil Pheels, The last one to realize things like this, Ward outliving his death, fear of losing loved ones, manipulative relationships, mentions of other relationships, mirroring, not Lincoln friendly, sads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5405585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 3x10.  Just reflecting on the similarities in the narrative between Price in S3 and Ward observing Coulson with Daisy in S1, and how it seems intentional.  Also, I might add to this later when 3b starts up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The File

1.

He needs to know.

There has to be an angle, here.  Why Malick used Roz, gave her the intel on Project: TAHITI, specifically.

Breaking into her house feels kind of ironic. It doesn’t feel good. 

Nothing about this feels good.

There’s still police tape on the door.  It’s a crime scene.

Grant Ward’s last kill.

Roz was going to help him get to the bottom of all of this. And now, there’s no chance of that.

Or anything else.

This all started because he wanted to investigate the ATCU.

And his suspicions were right, but he’s not getting the others involved in this.  These are secrets between the two of them.

Because, someone else could’ve come here and done what he’s doing now. So he wouldn’t have to look at that spot on the floor.

He makes himself, anyway.  Points his flashlight on it, and wishes he felt something more.

Even with Ward dead, there’s still Malick and his plans.

He doesn’t want her death to have been in vain.  It’s already enough that it was because of him.

That’s the least he can do. Finish what they started.

He’s wearing a glove on his right hand, his left doesn’t leave any fingerprints, and he runs his right along the surface of the desk, until he finds an off joint.

He presses it to see if there’s a click, and there’s not.

Huh.  He’ll have to look elsewhere.

They are spies, after all, he knows how they hide things. People like them. C’mon, Roz.

His eyes catch on the Thatcher biographies lined up. One book sticks out a bit further than the other.

No.  Surely not.

He still doesn’t understand the contradictions of her himself, but he reaches forward and hooks the book forward with a finger.

There’s a pop and he looks to see a board on the floor near the wall loose.

So old-fashioned.  And here she was teasing him about Lola.

Bending down, he lifts the board and sees some papers.  Things like fake passports, a new identity she had ready to go.

And a file.

It has a familiar symbol on it.

He swallows, hard, because his stomach just dropped and now he’s hesitating.

That’s what got him in so much trouble before.   Hesitating.

Swiping it out of the floor, he puts the other things back in the compartment and seals it back.

Maybe he should look at it right here?

Read it in the place where they were going to sit down across from each other and have dinner?

Just like normal people do.

He has to fight the urge.  To punish something because he can’t invent new ways to punish himself.

That really expensive baseball bat would be a good start.

Opening his jacket, he slides the file in, zips it, and leaves the way he came in.

 

2.

It’s possible that Roz believed Malick had bought HYDRA intelligence.

After all, he did the same thing when he hired Izzy and her team tried to buy a file on an 0-8-4 over a year ago.

The fall of SHIELD put a lot of intelligence information on the black market.

That could’ve been all that this was. 

He knows it’s not.  This was a secret project.  Only a few people had access to this information.  Which is why he was suspicious of her to begin with.

It still doesn’t mean she knew all of this, just that it was good intel.

Staring down at the file, late at night in his office, he’s sure no one noticed him sneaking back in.

The door is locked and he’s drinking a cup of coffee with just a desk lamp on, but he doesn’t need the caffeine to stay awake he realizes.

There’s enough adrenaline here to keep him up all night.

The outside of the file has his name on it.  He catches the awareness of his frown, forces himself to turn the file open.

Images of his death, copied from SHIELD files are there.  He runs his finger down it to see who the author is and it’s what he was expecting.

J. Garrett.

His hands tense, and it all makes sense.  _Ward_.

He’s dead, but somehow, he’s still here with him.  All of this is information that Ward fed Garrett when he was spying on him and the team.

And he was the target.  He was _always_ Ward’s target.

Stupid.  And wasteful.  All those lives.

He shoves the file away from him.  That should be enough.  That’s all he needs to know.

His hands ball together in fists, and then he shuts his eyes and when he opens them, he slaps his hand on top of the file and drags it back towards him.

Taking in a breath, he opens it and starts over again.

From the beginning.  Reliving it all over again.

The man who couldn’t kill Grant Ward.

 

3.

Daisy is being kind and trying to give him his space.

Plus, the Lincoln thing.  Which he’s not really wanting to think much about, either.  He’s seen Andrew’s report.  What’s to like?

He can tell, though, that her instincts are firing on full cylinders right now and she knows something’s up.

She has no idea.  He can never tell her.

Jerking the coffee pot from its spot under the brewer, he pours himself a cup.

“Late night?” she asks.

And it certainly was.  He has bags under his eyes for sure, doesn’t want to talk about it.  Ever.

He gives her a grunt and she looks away, waits for him to walk off.

“I heard you come in.”

That stops him in his tracks.  He expected something like this, but not quite so soon.

“I went back to Roz’s place,” he says, turning back to her.  “If you really want to know.”

She bites on her lower lip and her eyebrows knot themselves together, like she’s looking for something.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

And her eyes meet his, and he doesn’t want this.  He’s the last person she should pity, when he’s been such a fool.

“Did you follow me?” he asks her, a hint of warning in his voice.

“No,” she shakes her head, looks down. “I was just up late, and I-“

“With Lincoln?” he interrupts, like a blunt object.

“Yes,” she says, giving him a questioning look. “Is that a problem?”

“I hope not.”

Her face, her whole posture changes, and it’s enough of an opening to let him turn back around and take the walk up the steps to his office.

He thinks about burning it, that file.

It’s evidence.

 

4.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He finds her in his office, late.

Granted, he’s sneaking back in, but it’s still his damn office last he checked.

She crosses her arms and gives him one of those looks.

“Planning on taking down the ATCU all by yourself?”

“I see you _are_ following me,” he answers, eyeing the desktop, seeing exactly what it is she’s after now.

“I wasn’t, until you asked me if I was,” she replies, raising her eyebrows.  “And, it was a tracker. So, technically, it wasn’t me.”

He brushes off her attempt at humor and moves closer, looks down at the desktop, and it’s exactly like it was when he left earlier tonight.  Not a thing out of place.

“I know you’re going through a lot,” she goes on, circling back around the desk. “But you need to stop.”

“You don’t know,” he says, running his fingers along the top of the desk, then flicking his eyes back up to hers.

It takes her off guard, but she just keeps coming.

“What happened was not your fault,” she says, searching his face.

“It was my responsibility,” he answers. “I shouldn't have let it go on.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks.

And her gaze is a little too curious, her lips parted for far too long.

“About Ward,” he says, like it’s the only possible answer. “I should’ve taken him out myself when I had the chance.”

“Ward.”

“What else would it be about?” he asks her, with a tilt of his head.

“Nothing,” she says, starting to turn away, in a hurry.  “I shouldn’t have-”

“Daisy!”

He says it sharply, and reaches for her, grabs her arm, and turns her back towards him.

“I’m sorry, I read it,” she says, trying to shrug out of his hold. “And I don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself.”

It’s gripping him again, that kind of panic, like he’s about to relive something horrible.

He lets go of her.

“He’s dead.  It’s over,” she tells him, running a hand over his arm, and her eyes are _so_ filled with compassion.

She doesn’t know, he breathes a sigh of relief, turns his face away from her.

“Why couldn’t you tell me?  I don’t understand.”

His mouth drops open, and nothing comes out.

“What’s so wrong with what’s in that file? 

“It’s late,” he says quietly.  “I’m tired.”

 

5.

There’s no need for him to be Director at the moment.

Too much to sort out, and he can’t just come and go in that role.

Mack’s a good guy, and it’s not something he’s asking for, but it’s something he’ll do.  He can’t help but suspect it’s an act of friendship when he does, even if he never says the words.

As Director, he could also order him to stay on base, but he doesn’t.

Then he assigns Daisy to work with him in the field, and things take a turn for the worse.

Of course, Mack has no way of really knowing.  It’s like he’s the big brother trying to get them to make up or something, which is not what this is about.

And God, the dirty looks Lincoln’s giving him, obviously enjoying the idea he’s just an Agent now, like him.

Maybe Mack would like to bring back ‘Levels’?

He has nothing to worry about, of course, because when he and Daisy are in the field they work together well like they always do, but it’s not like anything has changed.

There’s just a proximity issue, and he thought he had resolved this, but it’s very clear he has, in fact, not.

She’s beautiful and she’s so keen, it’s achingly difficult at times to hide from her. 

The way that Joey looks at her, he gets it.  Impossible to not think she’s amazing, to force himself to not listen too carefully, beyond mission necessity.

After awhile it settles into something easier.  She tolerates his grumpiness, and he tolerates her generosity, which should’ve evaporated by now, but hasn’t.

Then, she gets shot.

It starts all over again. 

Out in the field against some nameless HYDRA people this time, and she was trying to cover the team in retreat and something happened.

A bullet slipped through.

It just grazed her, but her blood is on his hands as he presses against the wound on her shoulder, and she’s yelling something at him, but there's blood is rushing in his ears, too.

Almost like the world around him starts to fade away.

“Coulson.  Phil.  It’s okay.”

She’s holding him by both of his shoulders, shaking him and he blinks, wondering if he’s in shock.

“It’s not serious.  I’m okay,” she repeats.

“We should get you to Lincoln,” he manages to say, trying to control the shaking in his voice.  “Get you cleaned up.”

“ _Phil._ ”

It makes him ache, the way she says that.  It’s killing him. She touches his face and he can’t help it, he has to look at her.

“I need you to tell me.”

“I-“

It slips out, but Lincoln is coming down the ramp of the Quinjet, staring daggers into him, and he helps Daisy up.

He doesn’t get to finish.

But when he looks up to follow her with his eyes, still seeing her blood on his hands, she’s staring back at him.

 

6.

“Price was coached. To appeal to me in very specific ways.”

She sits across the table from him, and they’re alone.  It’s late.  The reversal is interesting he supposes, even after months gone by.  
  
“I didn't notice the pattern,” he continues. “I just thought she had intel on my likes/dislikes, standard stuff.  But she knew about Project: TAHITI and that came from HYDRA.”  
  
“So you wanted to know what we were dealing with,” she says, linking her fingers together on the tabletop.  
  
He nods.  
  
“Then we meet as friendlies and she shows me a picture of you, and threatens to do to you what she did to Lincoln. That was personal,” he says, with a humorless chuckle. “But that's not what this is about. That was just the bait to guarantee I'd cut a deal, maintain that connection.”

Daisy nods slowly at him.  Because she’s heard that part.  He told her as much.  It's all coming out easier, suddenly.  
  
“It's what happened after. Her vintage car, the collectibles. My favorite burgers...all obvious. I still had my head in the game at that point.”

She looks down at the tabletop when he brings this up, like she regrets trying to keep him in line. And, no.  She shouldn’t regret that at all.  
  
“Then, I started to question myself. When she cooperated, laughed at my bad jokes. Told me how she liked it when I talked tough.”

Daisy smirks at that, and he knows why.  He’s not that tough.

“And I was lonely. She asked me for a drink, which turned into more than a drink. Then I had to know.  It turned out I was right.”

He takes a deep breath, staring down at the tabletop.

“She wasn’t HYDRA. She wanted answers, just like I did.”  
  
His eyes force their way up to meet hers.  She's just looking at him so intently.  Listening, all of this time.  
  
“She wanted to help. Then Ward shot her, let me watch her die, bleeding, in my arms.”  
  
“Oh, God,” he watches her hand cover her mouth as she sees the connection now.  
  
“Then I read that file. Ward, watching you and I. All the details were there. Lola, how you called me AC, laughing at my jokes and my office full of junk. Hiding a secret, how we chased secrets together once I trusted you. How easily I gave you that trust.”  
  
“Stop,” she says loudly.  
  
“And it all made sense.  I didn't want you to know any of this. I'm not sure what I think about it myself.”  
  
“Then don't think about it,” she says, standing. “I'm so sorry, Phil.”  
  
He doesn't deserve this, to have her arms wrapped around his neck, the side of her face pressing into his head.  
  
She should run away right now, because she could be next.  They already tried once.  
  
But he holds on anyway.  He can't let go.  He’s too weak.  
  
For a moment, he feels a little less alone.


End file.
